


Magnetic

by Dracones95



Series: Bad Trip [1]
Category: Afraid of Monsters & Cry of Fear
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Pining, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Substance Abuse, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones95/pseuds/Dracones95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is so hopelessly attracted towards her, like a tiny moth to a flame, begging to burn. [Cry of Fear - Simon/Sophie]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't know exactly how or when it started; he had suddenly woken up one day with a hollow feeling in his chest that he couldn't fill with a cigarette nor a needle, a feeling he couldn't quite put his finger on. It lasted for about a week, a whole week he had not gotten out of his own room once, lying sick on his bed with his mother outside his door, both worried and upset. It was gone just as suddenly as it started, leaving him in a confused and numb state that had nothing to do with the morphine. When he went back to school, hood draped over his head, walking slowly like a convalescent patient, that feeling came back, this time associated with a face.

She came running towards him; the only person in that place to ever care about whatever happened to him, one person that saw past the puncture marks and almost parallel scars on his forearms. The only person that ever missed his presence. At first, he panicked. Then he denied everything. Felt sick once more. He couldn't feel like that towards her, it was awfully wrong. She was his friend, his only friend, his support and shoulder to cry on. He could not feel like that towards her, he wasn't supposed to.

It didn't leave him alone, and he spent another four days holed up in his room until his mother finally threw the door open and forced him to go to school ("You can't stay locked up in here anymore, it's not doing you any good"); he knew he couldn't hide from her forever, but he had to at least try, for as long as he could. He didn't look her in the eye once the entire day and she could tell something was off, she knew him better than he knew himself, knew when he was truly happy and when he was miserable. And right now, he looked guilty. She asked, she begged him to tell her what was wrong ("Are you mad at me?"), but all he could do was sit and play with his fingers in his lap and think about how nice it would be if he was kissing her right now. She dropped the matter, but he could see it was bothering her; he never kept things from her, no matter how twisted he thought they were.

He gave up, annoyed, trying to chase away the images of her in his arms, under his covers, and spent the night tossing and turning in his bed with his mind on her, waking up feeling dirty and disgusting. 

He ended up avoiding her for days until she finally cornered him in the library at school ("Tell me what's wrong, Simon, please.") and he had to lie to her that nothing was wrong, that he was just having another episode he was finding a bit difficult to cope with, even though he was entirely sure she didn't believe him. She looked at him with sadness in her mesmerizing eyes and it took all of his already weakened will not to spill it out, tell her everything. 

He thought of it often, way too often for his liking; in his mind he would tell her that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her every day for the rest of his life, and she would smile and throw herself in his arms, with tears in her green eyes, and she felt the same. He hated those visions, for they weren't yet true, but when he found that they helped him sleep at night, he let them take over him. 

And so, days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, and he was hating himself more and more for the act he was putting on in front of her. ("Everything's fine, stop being so worried." He laughed, pushing her playfully and making her choke on the big gulp of soda she had taken out of his can.) Worst of all, he was starting to notice fine cracks into his carefully built facade, starting to slowly, but surely, splinter. He couldn't control himself much longer.

He made her upset, one night while they were sitting on a bench in the park across the street from their school; he didn't even remember what he had told her, only that she had suddenly became quiet while watching the stars unfold above her head, then, without a warning, stood up and left him alone in the faint light. It took several seconds for his weary mind to kick him into reacting. 

He chased her in the middle of the street, shouting her name like it could somehow change her mind; she didn't stop nor look back at him, and the sight of her leaving him behind was driving him crazy. He caught up to her right under a street light casting long shadows on the concrete beneath their feet; he grabbed her upper arm tightly and spun her around rather violently, regretting it instantly when she finally looked at him with a scared expression. No, no, it wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be scared of him. He let go of her like she had singed him and half expected her to turn around and run, but she didn't. Instead she stared at his face, half hidden by his gray hood, as if searching for something. An explanation, perhaps, for the strange behaviour that's been going on for months, for whatever he said that made her sad. 

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out; he could hardly find the right words to express what was going on inside him, how much he longed for those beautiful eyes to look at him with something other than pity, or worse, fear. He could feel a lump forming in his throat and he struggled to contain himself, to keep the mask on.

"Let go, Simon." She demanded softly and he frowned, looking down between them to realise he had grabbed her arm again, unconsciously trying to keep her from drifting apart, desperate to have her near him. He didn't grant her wish, instead gripping tighter; she pulled back, though weakly, as if she was torn between leaving him or staying, listening to what he had to say. It wasn't like she didn't care about him; she had proved it several times before, at least as a friend, and Simon was content, until he wasn't. He felt it in his chest, in his loins. He longed for more. 

"I love you, Sophie." It came out, just like that. Months, almost a year, of keeping everything bottled up, gone in just a split second. He could have sworn he saw a shadow of a smile on her face for a brief moment; knowing she was wanted made her happy. But it was him wanting her, not some sort of a Prince Charming on a white horse that all girls, her included, dreamed of. He grit his teeth, his eyes never leaving her face, suddenly feeling angry.

"I have to go." She made another weak gesture of pulling away, Simon's hand enclosed like a warm bracelet around her wrist. His chest felt as if it could burst with all the things unsaid, but now that he had a chance to say them, he couldn't find the proper words; he opened and closed his mouth like a suffocated fish washed ashore. What could he possibly tell her? That he cried every night hugging his pillow and gritting his teeth to make the pain of not being with her go away? It sounded pathetic to his own ears, painting him as pitiful and needy, a need he felt was beyond her comprehension. 

"Please," he begged for something, pride thrown out the window, he didn't even know what for. Please don't go? Please don't be scared of me? Please love me back? He felt hot tears pool in his eyes and cascading down his cheeks, his voice breaking and choking. "I fucking love you. Please!" He cracked; it was inevitable, it's been boiling inside him for so long it was a miracle he didn't explode. 

He hated himself when she looked at him with an expression of pity, mixed with something else he didn't recognize. "I know." She whispered, taking his hand, the one that wasn't keeping her from running away, and gripping it weakly; her fingertips were cold against his burning skin. She knew; his mouth widened into an almost demented smile as he fought to keep back the tears that were still dripping. 

"Please come home with me. Please." He lost track of his thoughts, begging for her to follow him. She nodded, looking genuinely concerned about his desperate, almost delirious state; he needed to be home, safe right now. 

He led her to his house; she walked behind him, holding onto his arm to let him know she was still there. She was always there, someone who listened, but never someone he could touch. His mind had emptied somehow, for the first time in years. Silence. She didn't say a word to him the whole walk to his house, just squeezing his arm gently from time to time, fueling the fire in his lower pits. 

He let her go inside first, but she didn't seem to want to stay any longer, turning around and reaching for the door the moment he stepped inside. A bitter taste filled his mouth.

"I'm going to leave now, get some rest." She whispered in the empty room, making him bite at his lips in voluptuous lust. 

He was the only thing between her and the exit. He locked the door behind him and panic started settling in.

"Simon, open the door, I have to go." He shook his head, looking incredulously at her, as if she had just unexpectedly broken a promise. He blocked the door with his body and put the key in the pocket of his hoodie; she was scared again, he hated it when she was afraid of him. Her body was shivering and he was just dying to wrap himself around her and cradle her, keep her close so she'll never be cold, nor afraid ever again. He once wanted to protect her from anyone who would want to hurt her; right now he wasn't even sure he could protect her from himself. 

"Simon," she called out to him once more, taking a step backwards when he advanced on her, chanting her name under his breath as if trying to calm her down. It did the exact opposite and it irritated him, quickening his steps as if he had lost his patience. 

"Sophie. Sophie. It's okay." Her name tasted sweet on his lips and anticipation made his body tremble as if he was cold. She backed into the couch behind her, and pressed herself further into it when she realized that he was too close for her to go anywhere else. She whimpered when he touched her cheek with the tips of his burning fingers, slowly moving across it, almost fascinated with the softness and the creamy complexion. He traced her jaw with his index, a shadow of a maniacal smile playing on his lips. She was trapped, with no where to go, nowhere to run away from him. All his. Finally. He was breathing and moving slowly, determined to take his time, live this moment to the fullest. He won't get another chance.

"It's okay," he echoed, bringing himself closer to her own shivering body, engulfing it into a warm, caring embrace. She cried into his chest, terrified, fists full of his hoodie pushing at him. He rubbed big circles into her back with his right hand, soothingly, whispering into her ear as sweetly as he could.

"I love you, Sophie, I really do," his lips touched the shell of her ear and he felt her shudder lightly against him; part of her still trusted him. Part of her was convinced he'd never do anything to harm her, that this was just a side effect of that morphine he kept taking despite her protests, and it wasn't the real him. And if he came to think of it, he hadn't been feeling like himself lately. He was highly aware of her hips touching his, and warmth spread down to his loins, making him bite his bottom lip until it hurt. His hand trailed down her back slowly, stopping just above the waistband of her jeans. 

"Stop it, Simon, please!" She pleaded so deliciously, doing nothing to cease his movements, however; he ran his open palm along her back, up and down and up and down, eyes half closed with the pleasure of having her intoxicatingly near. When he looked at her face, it was flushed and wet with tears; he wiped them with his thumbs, cupping her face while staring into the green pools, rimmed with red. Terror. 

"I love you," he said for the third or fourth time that night; now that the ice was broken, he couldn't stop saying it. He had to make up for all those times he had wanted to, but he'd been too afraid. "I'm not going to hurt you, just.. please. I want you." Those eyes that were swimming in tears looked distressed, scared, and everything in between. He wanted her to be happy, to smile. To want him back. 

"Simon.." her voice was thick, shaky. "I can't." She whispered the last part, shattering his heart into a million pieces. His arms went slack around her, the blow of rejection rendering him immobile for a few seconds; he felt her slowly pulling herself out of his embrace. 

"No," he said, a lot more forceful than he intended to, startling her. "No, I can't let you go. You won't leave me, you promised." The scream pierced ears and bone when he shoved her into the back of the couch again, harshly. His name was on her lips again, frantically trying to convince him to change his mind, to stop him from hurting her further. He groaned, gripping at her wrists tight enough to feel her wild pulse under his fingertips.

"Stop saying my name, stop it." He said through gritted teeth. "I don't know what I'll do to you if you keep doing it." Her body and mouth stilled, allowing fresh tears to pour down her cheeks and chin. He suddenly remembered that his mother was sleeping upstairs; he listened for a short while, but she didn't seem to have heard anything, luckily for him. He wanted no interruptions. 

His attention turned back to her. "I won't hurt you," he kissed her forehead like she was a child, a sweet innocent child. "You know that. I'll be so good to you." His hood had fallen off his head at some point, he didn't even remember when, but it didn't matter now. He had her, there, in his arms, where she belonged. He smiled at her, pushing her chin up to force her to look at him. She didn't recognize that person anymore. This person was not the Simon she knew, the Simon that used to give her bear hugs and share his food with her. Whatever it was that snapped inside him turned him into a downright monster with an insane hunger for her flesh. 

He shushed her whimpering, glancing in the direction of the staircase; no sign of movement. His mother was still asleep, oblivious to what was happening downstairs; he had to keep Sophie quiet if he wanted it to stay that way. He let the tips of his fingers graze the front of her shirt, clawing at the thin, silky fabric. 

"You're great, I love you so much." He whispered in her ear, before running a long line with his lips across her jaw. He couldn't get enough of those simple three words that carried so many nights of staring at his ceiling, unable to keep his mind off her; he felt as if each time he said them, they cut off another link from the chain that kept him tied to her for so much time. She tilted her head back, trying to pull away, and he steadied her with a hand gripping at her blonde hair, tighter than necessary; he couldn't let her move an inch away from him, he had to have her close to him, close enough to feed his hunger. 

She was starting to realise that the only ways she could escape from him were to either hurt him, or be loud enough to wake up the woman sleeping upstairs and alert her that something was wrong. Her pleas fell on deaf ears, but, as much as Simon has hurt her, she couldn't bring herself to harm him; a tiny little part of her still believed that he would snap out of it, let go, apologise, start crying, anything. That silly wishful thinking left her with one option only. Her desperation made her predictable, however.

"Mrs Henri.." His palm slammed heavy onto her mouth, muffling the rest of her futile cry for help; Simon's face was pure fury and it was terrifying. He dragged her off the couch and slammed her into the wall, the grunt of pain swallowed by his hand.

"I tried to be patient with you," he struggled to keep his voice even, but his anger and suppressed desire were getting the better of him." But you're making it so hard for me." He hesitated before freeing her mouth; the sobs that were ripping through her body made her unable to shout again. 

"Just..let this happen, okay?" He didn't want to look at her tear stained face anymore; that guilt that was starting to chew at him from the inside had to go away, and seeing her cry and shy away from him wasn't helping. "I'll make you feel good, I promise."

And with that, he brought their mouths together, squeezing his eyes shut and savoring the slightly salty flavor of her lips. He breached the barrier easily, licking softly into her sweet warmth; he couldn't help but smile against her, while his fingers dug into her flesh at her shoulders. 

He broke the connection only when his head started to spin, dizzy from the lack of air. She made no move to push him away, nor any other sign of rejection. She just stared at him with dead eyes, waiting for the moment when he was done with her. He grinned. He was just getting started. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't know what's wrong with me." He mouthed against her collarbone, letting his hands roam south. "I can't keep my mind off you." He gripped her hips and brought them closer to his own, his grin growing against her shaking bones. 

"I just.." he paused, inhaling the scent of salty skin right over her jugular and losing track of his own thoughts, intoxicated. "You're so beautiful, and so kind to me." He felt the shiver that ran down her spine and wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her flush against his body once again. "I don't deserve you, you're too good for me." He muttered, more to himself than to her, placing both his hands on the wall behind her. He pulled back and watched her avoid his hazy gaze, desperately trying to deny his entire existence; this was not happening. That was not Simon. He smiled reassuringly, even though he knew she couldn't see his face. He grabbed her hand gently and tugged at it, watching her reaction; she was completely frozen, fear and shock making her helpless and inert.

"Come on." he whispered and she followed out of reflex, towards the couch she had been pinned against no less than five minutes ago. His hand was on her back again, rubbing circles that did anything but comfort her. When exactly did everything go wrong? She remembered at some point that Simon had started to act strange, stranger than he usually did, and no matter how much she pressed and insisted, he wouldn't tell her what happened. She should have seen it then. None of this would've happened.

She found herself on her back on the couch, with him straddling her hips and biting his lips to keep himself from grinning lewdly. She felt sick to her stomach. A peck to her forehead and a hand around her throat made her go stiff, anxiously awaiting his next move. His thumb ran across her jugular, pressing just enough to hinder her breathing. She gasped; she could see it in the way his eyes sparkled how he loved every single sound of fear or ecstasy he was robbing from her. 

His hands were now at the top button of her shirt, working clumsily to get it open. When he failed, his hands shaking with the anticipation, he grabbed at the fabric and ripped the buttons off in one harsh move, sending plastic pellets flying and making her jump. He shushed her again, softly, like you would a child, pulling the yellow shirt apart and staring hungrily at the curve of her breasts, on display for him to touch. He traced them with his index finger, tantalizingly, watching her eyes blur with tears; why does she have to cry? Why doesn't she want this, why doesn't she love him back?

"Am I not good enough for you? Hm?" He asked with a cold edge in his now husky voice, squeezing her chest in his large hands. He lowered his head and pressed a kiss against the skin, hearing her heart thrash like a caged bird in her chest. 

"Answer me." Anger seeped in his voice and made her bones tremble; his fingers sank into her flesh painfully, as if trying to scratch through the skin and reach inside. "You do, don't you?" His voice shifted to a sad hue out of the blue. "Think you're too good for me." His teeth ripped open the milky expanse of her chest, filling his mouth with coppery liquid and hers with another gasp. "Why?" He sounded miserable, almost pitiful. "I've always been so good to you, why don't you love me?" His hands were at her waistband, tugging at it lightly.

"You're hurting me." He missed her barely whispered words, fascinated with the lines the elastic waistband left on her skin; he traced the red dents with his lips, murmuring softly against them. "It's ok, I'll forgive you for thinking so low of me, even though you were supposed to understand." Her pants slid down her legs at an agonizingly slow pace, one centimeter at a time, revealing more and more of that perfectly smooth skin. He smiled as he threw them aside, touching the outside of her thighs as if they were fragile porcelain. A weak kick aimed at his chest connected, but it was ineffective.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He suddenly became playful, tapping her leg like piano keys and smiling like a child on Christmas Eve; he got his present early this year. He glanced hungrily at red lace underwear, his eyes stripping them off before his hands could; his patience was worn thin, barely keeping him from tearing into her body like a savage. He peppered her thighs with light touches of his lips, running his hands over them obsessively; he moaned, shamelessly, loud and needy, consumed with the desire to devour her whole. "I need you," he breathed out against her stomach, leaving a hot and wet trail with his tongue. "God, I need you so much."

The sound of tearing fabric made her recoil, pulling away from him as much as she could, retreating into the soft cushions. The sofa where she used to watch stupid movies with him and eat popcorn and go over school notes again and again; a place so familiar and warm shifted into a scene from a horrific nightmare. Simon's face was twisted, eager to have her on that metaphorical silver platter; she turned her head away from that sight, big fat tears seeping from her eyes and staining the fabric.

"Please stop crying." He begged almost, as if it mattered anymore. She barely heard the shuffle of his own clothes as he threw his hoodie aside and pulled his shirt off; pale skin that almost glowed in the faint light and scars that marred his forarms and his hips. She's never seen him like that, not even in the summer when it was hot enough to melt the asphalt on the streets; her head snapped to the side again when he started to undo his belt. It was happening. There was no stopping it, no delaying it, nothing.

His hands found her hips, sinking into them, aligning them with his own, before pressing inside as hard as he could, impatient. He flinched at the scream of raw pain that left her lips, covering them with his hand to muffle the ear splitting noise. His entire being shivered, engulfed by her warmth. "God.." he rocked his body slowly, taking her with him; he couldn't look her in the eyes anymore, but he knew they were swimming in tears of pain and shame and betrayal. No. It wasn't his fault. He replaced his hand on her mouth with his lips, swallowing every moan and scream she let out. 

"I love you," he mouthed against her lips, keeping the slow rhythm; he attacked her neck with his lips, sucking small circular marks onto her skin. His mind was pure ecstasy, groaning with every deep thrust that sent him further into the depths of his sin; her golden hair framed her hair like a halo, a beautiful angel whose wings he has just cut. Her legs tightened around his waist and he smiled against her neck, bringing his hand down to meet her silky curves; her breasts felt soft and fragile under his palms and brought out delicious moans when he squeezed them as gently as he could allow himself to be in that moment. His hips picked up speed, slamming with obscene slapping sounds into her own.

He couldn't take it much longer, that heat building up in his lower abdomen and threatening to explode. It washed over him suddenly, and hit him like a sledgehammer, blinding him and turning his limbs into cotton. He collapsed on top of her, clammy skin sticking together; she was no longer crying, instead staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. He was still inside her. What have you done?

"You sick bastard." Her voice was weak but brimming with fury and hatred; it broke his heart once again. He lifted himself off the couch; blood ran down her legs, a halo of fingerprints around her hips and her throat was a violent purple that made him want to throw up. What have you done? 

He picked her up and she didn't protest, spent. Defeated. The bathroom door was flung open and he put her down in the tub, letting warm water run over her shivering body. It turned a rosy pink in second, tainted. She won't ever feel clean again no matter how much she scrubbed and lathered the soap suds all over her abused skin; she flinched when his wet hand wiped her face insistently, like he was trying to erase something stubborn and persistent. He couldn't stand the sight of her, the dead eyes; he couldn't fix it. What have you done? 

He stood, abruptly, leaving her, for the first time that night, to soak into the already dirty water and diluted blood. She wasn't strong enough to stand on her own, let alone run. He hit his shoulder on the door frame in his haste, the dull pain feeling somewhat welcome. A pleasant distraction. The set of kitchen knives sat undisturbed on the counter and he sat to weigh them all in his hands before settling for the sharpest one. It needed to be quick, it needed to end now before anything else horrible happened. What have you done? 

He made so much noise, so much noise inside his brain, clouding what was left of his judgment. She saw what he had in his hand and she was surprisingly at peace with the thought. Sophie, who always urged him to go on, fought to keep him alive. Warm fresh blood trickled now down her chest into the water below, staining it redder and redder by the second. The pounding in her chest stilled and his hands shook now more that they ever did in his life, making the metal dance above his own wrist.

Somebody threw open the door behind him, a strangled gasp and a feminine, motherly voice making him freeze.

"Simon...?"

_"What have you done?"_


End file.
